"hardpack" poems
I drank once,
from the deep well of sleep
when cool waters refreshed this parched earth,
now barren without nourishing dreams.
My worries grow futile shoots
in the hardpack, they wither and die.
Ashes scattered dryly
fuel further frets.
This drought is not over.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
Thunderbird wine and a brown paperbag.
Hardpack of Newports nicotine fit shayesed .futhermucker.
Much obliged ...oh yes. Moma.said thered be days like this
Double ful twist piked in a spin dont even like the skin im in
Igpay atinlay...uckfay ouyay..iskay imay.asskay
Yea uthermayuckerfay
Days like this.
Futhermucker.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
twelve days in july
and i carry tokens of each of them
in the pocket of my filthy jeans
each has a face
each has a story and its own trail
of rages or tears
she danced alone in the room
of the redhouse bodega
a spanish tune twisting slowly from the player
its sound thin but the song robust
spinning spinning round and round
she was shadow and light
flashes of rich color
in her best dress and boots of leather
hear them still hitting the hardpack floor
like thunder
she was a goddess that night
she was the worlds that night
let her stay there forever in the limelight
happy in the moment
he waited dressed in his finest clothes
pressed and neat from head to toe
with a single rose
in the moonlight a mile down from the redhouse
in his heart he sings that song to her
in his heart he holds her in his arms
theres nothing that will stop us he says
theres nothing that will ever stand in our way
and his heart dances thru all the days with her
that he will love her
that they will share
there in the moonlight a mile down from the redhouse
singing a song in his heart for her
let him abide there forever
happy in the moment
i see dawn sneaking in the window
pull the blanket from my shoulder
shake off the chill
cough the sickhouse regret and
feel my lungs fill with slow death
twelve days in july
but i keep dreamin of one night in febuary
a shopping cart and smiles
hope
i could use some
all the places i could have ended
did not see this one
alone in an empty broken room
an empty broken man
dont leave me here alone
in this moment
she lay in the grass
public park just before dawn
looking up at the stars fade
holding a small budda
rubbing the belly
smile on her face
but thoughts run deep and swift
with one finger she traces the edges of clouds
in her heart she paints masterpieces
she illustrates the world with a carefree hand
and is loved by all who behold
in her heart
the last sliver of moonlight is hers alone
on the road from the redhouse
an ambulance ride to saving
a quick journey to hope
on the road from the redhouse
she just wants to stay here where its safe
where nothing dangerous can get at her
in this moment of moonlight
happiness
twelve days in july
seem like years to me
where am i bound
will i make it
i just want that night
shopping carts and smiles
hope
just a glimmer of hope
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC
it was high summer nineteen thirty two
in the depths of Kansas backwood
that he drifted out of the heat haze on the
long thin road from Topeka
with her delicate face folded in his Sears Roebuck catalog
he strides casually along the ***** worn pavement
neatly stacked in his three piece suit
pressed and measured as his clothes
he is the image of prosperity and educated class
but the seething and vile is always just benith the surface
in such hot unforgiving places
he came walking slow ahead of the rain
drifting in like a plague ahead of the cleansing
he came in like a figure out of the old testament
gonna break this place
gonna burn it down to the very last sinning soul
with this rusty blade i shall cleave you from this hell
with this choking dust im gonna lay this place to waste
and its gonna be steel water to get me on
gonna take hammer blow to wake me from this heat haze slumber
the metal rim glasses lay by the roadside
there was blood on the lens
there was a single fingerprint
like an admission of guilt or of hope
she sweated kneeling in the field
the crop wasnt worth bringing to market
but she had no earthly idea what else to do but try
but suddenly she felt it from miles out
it felt like the cold hand of death itself
felt like the broken scream of a million years of souls burning in hell
it felt like he was coming home
he quickened his pace
his tread now was stuttered thunder
on hardpack
like a pack of wild dogs
he strained at the leash to keep from running
he is so close
closer than he has been in a thousand years
closer than the day that young man died as a thief's death
closer than lovers
he could see her in the feild
she had just turned to run
and now the fire within begins
like a world of hurt
like a man on fire
we wait for him
we wait for them
in the Topeka sun
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
racing a vanishing sun
his running shoes tap up dust clouds from
the hardpack sand
entranced by such a strange sky
enchanted by her dreamy voice
whispering distractions
in his minds ear
like her immoral thoughts
or her tunnel visions of nevermind illusions
like a distance runner in a cascade of tropical rain
focus on each stride
each care placed footfall
ponder the sand and coral in the shade of a tree
ponder the depth and breadth of a soul
wonder at thouse who live out their lives never having
known love
footfalls in the dusk
and the distance between his todays has grown narrow
as the gap between his sense of reality and the image his reflection lies to him with
footfalls in the dusk
echo with slight delay
as if he were being chased by a shadow
and he thinks to himself
"how true dat"..."how true dat"
his small brown pet keeps pace
but exhaustion is written in its threadbare bones
and it looks at me with such fear
as they sweat past at slow run
racing a vanished sun
and the strange skies
azure with dust clouds and deep with dreams
he feels alone
but he has become too accustom to
the pace and while he is burnt out but cannot cease
she may return someday
with her long brown hair flowing in a florida coastal breeze
so he keeps running slowly up the roads
running slowly in the shadows of a hasty sun
that was too quick to flee into the night
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
I.
We ***** our tents on the hardpack
of the town’s airport,
rows of stakes and guidelines
like a fishing wharf in the tundra;
the mail plane comes at one,
an overfull vulture circling above
before looping North towards
the Gates of the Arctic for the approach run.
The landing is
a front row rock concert
where the bassist only knows one chord
and the drummer is still setting up:
the tone resonates in the ooze of our marrow;
that is to say, the landing is simple,
drifting over alpine fir and spruce tops
with ballet grace
before cutting power
and slamming wheels to gravel.
II.
Yesterday’s rain feeds the Yukon today.
Its hands reach for a hard cloud ceiling
and its lows, its troughs call my name,
call my name, call my name,
endless waves in the river’s center,
arcing with storm energy
and grip strength.
III.
Other planes come, and leave,
and helicopters set down near us.
We play cards in their wind,
drink camp coffee that strains
through the teeth and plugs the gaps;
we watch and we wait
for seats that never come,
waiting to leave this airport runway,
waiting to fight the big fires.
IV.
We hear the boats before we see them,
curving around the clay banks
and we line our packs along
their aluminum walls.
We sit in plastic bags
to keep dry of river spray,
I hear my name again,
and another mail plane
takes off. The hardpack vibrates
under the wheels, the engines scream
their one note show,
and the DC-3 sinks off the runway towards
the Yukon – and us – before catching itself,
then slowly, so slowly we can almost touch
the silver belly, it growls to the North
and loops South towards Fairbanks.
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 7:34 PM UTC